


Crystalline

by kuduslut (hawkeward)



Category: Guild Wars 2
Genre: Dragon Corruption, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 19:09:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeward/pseuds/kuduslut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kudu, in the Crucible of Eternity. Enlightenment always comes at a price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crystalline

The symptoms begin with an itch beneath his skin.

He can feel hard nubs growing there. When the skin splits, the cracks do not bleed, but show dark and smooth, lit faintly from somewhere deep within. He probes the spots clinically when he is alone, assessing the spread of hardening flesh, listening to the rise and fall of the humming in his bones. 

His eyes become sensitive to light, even in the deepest, dimmest levels of the facility. Goggles help. Soon he wears them constantly—they hide the crystalline glimmer in his gaze that unnerves his assistants. In private, he looks his mirror image in the eye and notes the widening of his pupils, the steady increase of the cold sparks in them.

None of it matters. The dragon can have the shell of his body—his mind, his genius, remains clear.

Zojja still labors slavishly in Snaff’s shadow, but it’s him the dead master would be proud of. Any fool knows that the best apprentices expand beyond a teacher’s vision. Progress is in ruthlessly testing old theories, bypassing routine methods, not following them blindly in a misguided attempt to honor their creators with stasis.

His old mentor grappled mind-to-mind with dragons, and must have felt the power there. He will go further, will harness that power, rather than fight it.

He sleeps less and less, working late into the night, his only companion the quiet murmur of the crystals thrumming through him. Sometimes he can almost make out words within the undercurrent of whispers, encouraging and directing.

When he does collapse onto the cot just outside the laboratory, his dreams are filled with glory and destruction. Divinity’s Reach falls to ruins, its rubble haunted only by the dead. The Black Citadel is left a monument of twisted metal and crystalline shards. Hoelbrak lies buried, frozen beneath an impenetrable wall of ice. And everywhere the survivors kneel in supplication, pledging themselves to… ? 

_To what,_ a small part of him wonders. He ignores it—doubt is for frightened progeny, mewling in the dark.

There is no more darkness, for him. He no longer examines and measures the crystals protruding from his flesh. They grow, and it is of no concern. When he runs a loving hand over the surface of the containment cells holding the latest subjects, he barely notices how hard and cold his skin has become, or the way shadows fall stark over the glass from the glow of his eyes. 

His mind blazes with inspiration, energy coursing through him like never before. He works constantly, without assistance—the last of his personal krewe fled long ago. The whispers are his companion now, the only thing true and pure enough to survive the crucible of his work. They are pleased, chorusing their pride in him again and again, soothing and spurring him on at once.

When sirens sound in the distance, joined by muffled screams and explosions, he continues to work, putting the final touches on his greatest creation. It’s Zojja, of course. The whispers remember her, and the two brutes—human and charr—who trail behind at her beck and call like crude golems. He feels a dim sense of satisfaction at their approach. Zojja may rant and rail, but she will appreciate the genius of what he has done, if only as it crushes the life out of her.

He clings to that thought as the feeling of the cold floor pressing against his cheek fades, and the whispers finally fall silent.


End file.
